


Fortune Cookie's Fool

by cattycooper, msmaj, theheavycrown



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Demisexual Jughead Jones, Digital Art, F/M, Fic and Art, Friends to Lovers, Riverdale Pride and Joy Zine, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, Strangers to Lovers, The writers make no apologies for any hunger acquired after reading, chinese food deliciousness, college fic, gazingTM, gogenevieveart, gratuitous use of over the top very real fortunes, meet cute, snark and introspection: the Jughead Jones Special
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:33:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27843799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cattycooper/pseuds/cattycooper, https://archiveofourown.org/users/msmaj/pseuds/msmaj, https://archiveofourown.org/users/theheavycrown/pseuds/theheavycrown
Summary: Two college students wander into a Chinese restaurant and unexpectedly connect over fortune cookies.They came for the food. They stayed for each other.
Relationships: Betty Cooper/Jughead Jones
Comments: 13
Kudos: 48
Collections: 8th Bughead Fanfiction Awards - Nominees





	Fortune Cookie's Fool

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [Riverdale Pride and Joy Zine](https://riverdaleprideandjoyzine.tumblr.com) for putting together a collection of fandom art and fics that represented a whole array of characters and concepts. Thank you to [veronica--luna](https://veronica--luna.tumblr.com) for being a wonderful friend and beta. And finally, thank you to [gogenevieveart](https://gogenevieveart.tumblr.com) for creating an absolutely perfect art to go with our words.

_ You don’t have to be faster than the bear, you just have to be faster than the slowest guy running from it. _

While Jughead was never one to be upset by free food (especially free dessert), there was something about mind-boggling fortune cookies that killed his food buzz. Thanks again, American consumerism. He rolled his eyes, tossing the fortune next to his laptop before shoving the whole cookie into his mouth at once and scowling at the taunting blink of an unmoving cursor. The screen reflected the neon sign in the window, the same one that had lured him inside with the promise of food and a warm escape from the biting wind on the long trek to his apartment. When he had settled in, the familiar hum and glow combined with the quiet clink of flatware had made him feel as if he was back in a booth at his high school haunt, Pop’s. He’d hoped the sentiment it stirred would help the words fall from his fingers. It had not. 

He tapped a random beat onto the keys then muttered, “fuck bears,” and slammed the screen closed.

“I don’t know if I’ve heard that particular phrase out loud, ever,” he heard from somewhere behind him. “But I suppose if it helps you do whatever it is you’re doing, then more power to you.” Turning, he found the voice belonged to a woman who looked about the same age as him, blonde hair piled loosely on her head, pages of looseleaf spread out on the table around her.

“Let me guess...unusual fortune?” she said, offering a welcoming, infectious smile that tugged up the corners of Jughead’s mouth in return.

“The usual nonsense—drivel that doesn’t resemble any definition of the word ‘fortune.’”

The woman smiled down at her own small slip of paper, “I think you’re being a little too harsh on the fortune tea cake, aka the fortune cookie. It has a lot of heavy lifting to do at every meal by serving the dual purpose of dessert with a side of peering into your future. No small task for a cookie. A little nonsense can and should be expected.” She stopped her impassioned defense, seeming to catch a glimpse of the paper she was waving in her periphery, because after she delicately set the fortune on the table, she folded her hands demurely in front of her. Her lips pursed into a smile that was shy, almost embarrassed, before she started to speak again. “Besides, there’s something almost comforting in knowing that even if my week has been Baudelaire-levels of terrible, I can come here and know my ‘fortune’ will make me smile.” She paused, nodding slowly and deprecatingly at herself. “And that was a bit much before introducing myself, wasn’t it? Hi. I’m Betty.” 

He felt his smile creeping higher. “Jughead. That’s, uh, quite an educated take on the origin of a widely viewed as American, mass-produced after dinner treat there, Betty.” Her eyes narrowed at him slightly, enough for him to grab his laptop and slide it into his messenger bag. He stood, dropped an adequate amount of bills for his meal and a tip on the table, slung the bag over his shoulder, took two large steps, and plopped himself uninvited into her booth. “But I’d really like to hear your thoughts on how and why these traditional,  _ possibly  _ Japanese, delights became the calling card of Chinatown, and more specifically, San Francisco. If you have any, that is.”

The way her eyes lit up, a warm glow that emanated from her soft and engaged expression before she pulled her lips between her teeth, almost shy, captivated him. She was genuine, animated, and unguarded in a way that he wasn’t used to. Holding his eyes, she gave a soft, throaty chuckle before she began to speak. As simple as it was, he was certain he’d earned a permanent seat at her table. 

* * *

_ What’s that in your eye? Oh...it’s a sparkle. _

“So am I allowed to know what you’re working on or is it a secret?” Betty’s head was cocked to the side, an inquisitive eyebrow raised as she flourished her hand over the laptop. 

Jughead snorted. “Typically, if I told you, then I’d have to kill you...though more for the sake of saving face than anything else,” he winked, the result of which sent heat creeping up her neck. She rested her elbow on the table and put her chin in her hand hoping to hide the blush as he continued. “This particular endeavour, however, was a hastily assigned piece on meter and pacing, because my professor and his boyfriend are buying a house and apparently he’s a stress-grader.” Their eyes met over the table, and she couldn’t tell if he was joking or not.

It had been a few months since he had first intruded on her Friday night study session, disrupting her papers (and her heartbeat). They had fallen into a routine of sharing the wobbly table, food, fortunes, and weekly commiserations ever since. The transition was seamless. One week she was presented with a single menu upon arrival, and the next, she was given two. It wasn’t even a question. 

“That’s a thing?” Betty cocked an eyebrow. “I mean, I’ve got stress baking down to an art but stress grading? I feel like that would cause more problems than it would solve.”

Jughead stabbed at one of the dumplings between them. It lodged between the chopsticks and he brought it to his mouth, reverently biting into the tender treat. Through the chewing he posited, “And what problems does excessive cookie making solve exactly?”

She shouldn’t find it endearing, how he spoke with his mouth full or the soy sauce that dribbled down his chin, but she couldn’t seem to help herself. Was it something about the lights and how they made his eyes look so,  _ so _ blue? Or maybe it was the way she felt when he fixed his attention on her? Surely, it was some great, cosmic confluence that drew her to him.

“You might just be on the receiving end of my stress baking one day, and I have the strangest idea you won’t be questioning its usefulness then.” 

He raised his eyebrows, chewing another mouthful of food with a smile in his eyes, and Betty knew there was no one else she would rather share her baking with.

* * *

_ If you eat something and nobody sees you eat it, it has no calories. _

Some time later, the pressure of final exams tested out that theory.

At first, he thought it was a dream. It had to be. How else could one explain what he was seeing?

Their regular table was filled not with his favorite ponytailed blonde (and only, as if there could be another Betty) but with what appeared to be a mountain of sweet treats. Alone. Unattended. 

Surely this was a test, a set-up. For what, he didn’t have a clue, but what other reason could there be for such a display? With narrowed eyes he tossed his old messenger bag in the booth and slid in beside it. “Is this a joke?”

Jughead was met with a concerning silence before a little more than slightly disheveled Betty appeared. Her baggy t-shirt was streaked with flour, her usually well kept ponytail loose and frayed when she dropped into the booth across from him

“What’s with the spread, Betts?”

Her face lit up with a smile as he met her eyes over the sizable serving plate, somehow rivaling the welcoming warmth of all the baked goods before him. “Oh, you know, your typical distraction from college woes… A pinch of escape from studying, a dash of stress baking, and maybe a little bit of reconnaissance for flavor preferences,” she said.

“Your last fortune tell you that the way to warm my cold, dead heart was through my stomach?” The corners of his mouth quirked up along with a raise of his brows as he grabbed a mystery cookie.

He watched as pink colored her cheeks and he found himself unable to ignore the now uneven rhythm of his heart. “I’ve seen just how much that stomach can hold. I’d have to bake for months on end to even be able to make a dent.”

“It’s a damn good start,” he mumbled amidst a bite of what turned out to be the best peanut butter cookie he’d ever consumed. His head dropped back as he chewed, torn between swallowing quickly to shove another into his mouth as fast as he could and taking the time to savor each and every mouthful.

“Better than a fortune cookie?”

Jughead swallowed, grabbing another—this one with what looked like chocolate chips—as he shot her a quick grin. “Every day of the week."

And even though those chocolate chips turned out to be raisins, the sentiment still held. 

* * *

_ Pro Tip: You should have stayed in bed. _

Friday night—same Bat-time, same Bat-channel, surrounded by delicious food in the same Bat-booth—but instead of enjoying himself like usual, he was utterly miserable. 

And alone. 

(The evidence strongly pointed to there being a correlation between the two.)

Normally, he didn’t mind spending time alone. In fact, with a few notable exceptions, he tended to prefer it. That was the problem though, wasn’t it? Betty was  _ the  _ notable exception and she’d taken a too good to pass up, out-of-state internship for the summer.

The fortune cookie was right. He should have stayed in bed. 

This sucked. 

* * *

_ Life is a pickle; some days you’re the cucumber, some days you’re the brine _ .

She wasn’t salty. Well, maybe she was a  _ little _ salty, but she didn’t want to be. Longingly, she stared across the restaurant. The booth she now only thought of as “theirs” was occupied by some overly affectionate couple who were decidedly not them. It was  _ their _ reunion dinner, so  _ they _ should be the ones at the table. Who did this couple think they were, anyway?

Not that Betty and Jughead were a couple or anything. Although, she was pretty sure she'd done everything in her power to get him to notice her in a more than friendly way, he hadn’t taken advantage of the opportunities to change their relationship.

Despite the lack of typical amourous declarations, sometimes she was certain that the feelings were mutual. Before she left for the summer there had been lingering eye contact and seemingly intentional brushes of his fingers against hers when they reached for their fortune cookies. There hadn’t been an official declaration, but she just had the  _ feeling _ there was something more between them. 

Regardless of whether he reciprocated her romantic feelings, they had a connection, one which had become such an integral part of her life that the thought of spending months alone had weighed sourly in her gut. Combined with childhood insecurities of inadequacy, it fed a fear that things wouldn’t be the same after so much time and distance apart. 

Betty’s worries quickly proved to be unfounded. The moment her flight landed in California and she regained service, there was already a message waiting from him. From there on out, a day didn’t go by without Jughead sending her a new meme or asking how she was getting through. Her summer was spent sneaking selfies, texts (often littered with excessive emojis), phone calls, and video chats in between too long shifts at work. Though she missed their favorite place, reading fortunes in their favorite booth, she didn’t have to miss Jughead. He went out of his way to talk to her, rearranging his own schedule to account for the time difference and her unpredictable hours. He’d even been willing to delay meals (an action which still shocked her, to be quite honest) when she had time away from her internship, so they could eat take-out dinners together, picking at their respective cartons over laptop keyboards on video chat. There  _ had _ been more than a few offhand remarks over the past several months that caused her hope to flare, but nothing that had heralded any definitive conclusions beyond extremely close friendship.

"Are you planning on eating any of what you ordered, or are you going to keep staring at those people?"

The very subject of her thoughts spoke, jarring her back to the present. Her head swiveled toward him, a scowl, half morphed into an introspective stare, still on her face. As she watched the chopsticks work between his long, deft fingers, she felt her expression soften, the sigh she'd been trying to bite back escaping. "Sorry, it just threw me off, I guess."

Jughead set his own chopsticks down, confusion knitting his brow. "As a perpetual creature of habit, I totally understand how that," he gesticulated toward the table, "would be a wrench in the status quo, especially on your first Friday back, but I mean, I don't know…"

His words ceased, and she was left confused. "What? I thought you would be equally outraged! That's  _ our _ table, Jug!"

"Well, yeah, I told you I get it," his hand rubbed at the back of his neck. "They simply appear to actually be enjoying themselves."

She blanched. "Do you not enjoy yourself? With me?"

"No, no, that is not what I meant, Betts," he reached across the table but pulled his hand back before she could properly react. "It's just that they are clearly, you know, in love or whatever." 

Betty nodded, carefully contemplating the next words out of her mouth, and picked up her own chopsticks, moving the food around her plate. "Do you ever want that?"

“I never really thought about it before, and even if I had, it’s not like people were exactly lining up for the—how did they phrase it in the yearbook?— ‘damaged loner outsider from the wrong side of the tracks.’ But,” his voice trailed off and a stilted silence settled over the table. She could hear him swallow, watched as his Adam's apple bobbed in his throat. The sound of his palms rubbing over the rough denim of his jeans might as well have been sandpaper on her heart. 

He wouldn’t meet her eyes, looked practically everywhere except her as the seconds loudly ticked off on some distant clock. The longer she waited for a response the more sure she was that she had ruined everything. Not that she was any stranger to rejection. She’d been turned down by more than one potential partner in her day, and while it always stung, she had been able to easily brush it off. Move on. Forget it. But this… they hadn’t ever really talked about it before, what could be, but Betty knew implicitly that she wanted all of those  _ what-ifs _ with Jughead Jones. And the sheer volume of his silence spoke louder than all of the “no”s she’d heard previously. He knew her, cared for her, valued her presence in his life. Of course Jughead would wait to tell her face to face, taking care in finding the right words to express his disinterest.

The chopsticks slid from her hand and landed on her plate with a clatter. She turned away in a feeble attempt to stop the tears from forming in her eyes, but there was something palpable drawing her gaze back. The intensity of his stare caught her breath in her throat. 

“But maybe, recently, there's been a shift? Maybe it wasn't just that no one wanted to be with me, but I didn’t actually want anything— _ anyone _ —like that either. Because once that feeling  _ did _ hit, let's just say I haven't thought about anything else since."

Time seemed to slow despite the fact that her heart felt like it was beating in double-time. Betty felt the staccato pounding in her chest as his hand slid back across the table but this time his outstretched pinkie found hers and twined around it. Staring down at the simple lock of their fingers, she swallowed at the tight, aching lump in the base of her throat. The touch made her feel more sparks than any kiss had in her entire life. Her legs began to shake with the spike of nerves as every word in her vocabulary rushed to the front of her mind and then blanked all at once. 

Jughead started to fidget, the flex of his hand catching in the blur of her unblinking stare. He began to uncurl his pinkie, clearing his throat, “Betty, I get it. You—“

“Feel the same way!” She rushed, the words tumbling out at an unnatural volume as her other hand clasped down over his to still the retreat. A quick glance to the side, to the suddenly quieter than usual dining room, verified that she had shouted, but she couldn’t feel even an ounce of regret. She met his eyes, her shoulder shrugging up to her ear as a smile spread over her face. “I feel the same way, Jug.”

Betty watched as the smile on his face grew to match her own. The table fell silent again, but this time it felt like warmth, something wrapping around them and binding them together. She slotted her fingers through his and hoped that he could feel it too.

* * *

_ You will go on a date with a beautiful woman. She could do so much better.  _

It wasn’t that Jughead wasn’t all in, because he was, and had proven so over and over since that fateful day Betty and he shared their feelings. It felt like just yesterday—hands gripping tightly over the rough-hewn tablecloth, rosy-cheeked excitement with an overwhelming aura of nervousness. (He still hadn’t worked up the nerve to kiss her.) The reality, however, was that the better part of a month had passed and she seemed to only grow stronger in her beliefs: in him, in their relationship, in the path she hoped they could continue to pursue together. And as on-board as he could possibly be with this shiny shared future, the voices in the back of his mind refused to be quieted. 

They huddled up on the same side of the booth, his arm thrown over her shoulders while her head rested on his, breath hot and sticky on his neck. There were a million things he felt with her. Emotions that he had never felt so intensely, if at all, before: happiness, warmth, desire, companionship,  _ love _ … 

Except he hadn’t admitted that last one to her. To be honest he hadn’t admitted it to himself, constantly talking himself out of it and burying it down with the omnipresent doubt that had pervaded so much of his life. It was nearly a year to the day when he first dropped into her booth and he still couldn’t understand why she was still around.

“What’s on your mind, Juggie?” Betty questioned from her spot against his clavicle. Looking down into her eyes, seeing the concern, the veritable empathy swirling through the depths of green, he couldn’t help but lean forward and close the small gap between them, dropping a kiss to her forehead. A desperate plea on his lips for her to believe his heart and not the words that would inevitably come out wrong. 

He pulled away, confusion marring her face as he removed himself as her pillow. "Are we…" There was a pregnant pause punctuated by the removal of his beanie and a nervous sweep through his hair. He tossed the hat on the table, fingering the fuzzy and pilled knit. "Are you happy?"  _ With me? Is this worth it; am I? Am I enough? _

Betty's response was something between a sigh and a laugh. "Jug," her subsequent reach for his face was met with a flinch. Not on purpose, of course, but he always equated that kind of faux, physical placation to the dismissal of his feelings. "Juggie, you know I'm happy with you. Where’s this coming from?"

"I think we've established that I cannot be held accountable for every instance of questioning why  _ you  _ could possibly want to be with  _ me." _

He was met with an affectionate eye roll, but she didn't reach for him again. "I am very, very happy with you, in this relationship."

But the voice refused to relent. No matter how softly she looked at him, the smile that overtook her face every time he came into sight, or the intoxicating aroma of her sweet floral shampoo mixed with fresh, clean linen, the scent of  _ her  _ that always seemed to linger around him long after she’d gone, in his mind, it was all an illusion, and like all illusions, it was only a matter of time before it shattered.

"You were happy in your last relationship until you weren't. What's the expiration date on this one? I’m not exactly typical."

She didn't get a chance to reply as the server delivered their plates. They ate in awkward silence (more like, Betty picked at her food and he relentlessly devoured his). He refused to meet her eye at every turn, shame gurgling in his gullet with each and every bite. By the time the table was cleared, he couldn’t tell if he was filled more by food or guilt.

That pain in her eyes, he caused it, and it sat like lead in his stomach. He took a deep breath, the air sputtering between his teeth as it released. "I don't want there to be an expiration date on this, but all the things I've read—all the things I've  _ seen _ —have led me to believe that this is simply too good to be true. And it's only a matter of time before you realize it."

Betty nodded, cracking open a fortune cookie to occupy her hands, tears watering her lash line. Something resembling a laugh exited her, except cold and mirthless, as she threw the slip of paper on the table.

_ Love is on the horizon. The stars predict he will be tall, dark, & a wyrm. _

“I’m not a fortune cookie, Jug. I can’t predict the future, but I know what, and  _ who _ , makes me happy. And I wish you trusted that, trusted  _ us _ ,” she said before a heavy silence fell over the booth as they stared at the small, dark blue text on white paper. 

“I’ve never had—never been—“ A wrinkle creased between his brows. “I haven’t dated. Ever. I never felt...wanted...what two people in a romantic relationship…have.” Jughead struggled through the words. He hadn’t tried to describe his feelings before. Hell, he hadn’t known he could even  _ feel _ those feelings before, but over the course of his friendship with Betty, he found himself in an entirely new world of experiences and emotions. He was leery, warring with his own self-doubt and the nervous fear of rejection in the face of the great unknown. Betty hadn’t shown any signs of disinterest but he didn’t know what he would do if he moved forward and she didn’t have the same depth of intention. How  _ could _ she? For  _ him _ .

“And now? What do you feel about us?”

“Everything,” he breathed out, the words a reverent admittance. “So much that it scares me? All of this feels so foreign and new, I’m out of my depth. A stranger in a strange land. And what do I have to offer that you could possibly want?”

Betty gently touched his knuckles, stopping his anxious fidgeting across the worn fabric of his beanie. She took his hand and turned it over, stroking her fingertips across his empty palm. “Everything,” she said simply, clearly. Picking up the fortune, she placed it on his open hand, folding his fingers closed over the slip of paper before covering them with her own.

Their eyes met before their lips did. Meaning passed silently between them, saying more than any book of words Jughead had ever written could. Neither could say who leaned in first, but when their mouths met, their hearts opened, shedding the last of the walls of uncertainty between them.

It was the first fortune Jughead ever kept.

* * *

_ You will be hungry again in one hour.  _

Jughead knew how this worked, or at least he thought he did. He and Betty would have their weekly date at the restaurant, spend a few other days together when their schedules would allow, and fill those empty times and spaces with endless text chains and video chats. 

But lately it was like he couldn’t get enough of her. He wanted more: to see her, touch her, hear her, feel her, more more more. It was a constant cacophony in his brain, and the desire for all things Betty Cooper was starting to take over even the most important of his daily tasks. (He was quite happy to let the thoughts of their recent endeavors take over the banal parts of his day. Thank you very much.) 

He arrived at the restaurant after her, soggy and disheveled. The rain had soaked through his favorite sherpa jacket, and he was pretty sure the alleged waterproofness of his messenger bag was simply that,  _ alleged _ . Jughead knew nothing was original anymore, but did this storm really need to use  _ King Lear _ as inspiration? As such, he was not in the best of moods until he saw her, blonde ponytail swaying back and forth to whatever muzak pumped through the speakers. Getting a little (okay, a lot) waterlogged didn’t seem quite as bad when your favorite person greeted you at the end of the journey. 

The jacket was stripped off and slung over his dripping bag, both of which he tossed into the side of the booth he normally (not as of late, though) occupied. Tonight, however—water beading off his beanie, dripping from curly locks that clung to his forehead—he sat on her side straightaway. 

She looked curiously at him as she inched deeper into the booth. “Little wet out there, Jones?”

His whole face twisted into a look that bordered on lascivious. He opened his mouth to comment on her statement and was met with a crispy, fried wonton instead. “Oh, you think that’s cute?” He asked through his chewing. 

Betty nodded, pulling another piece off the wonton and slipping it between his lips. With a growl, his teeth playfully caught the tip of her fingers, and the easy way she laughed, the pink that colored her cheeks, the smile that he earned day in and day out filled his heart with a warmth that he was acutely aware he almost missed out on. 

While she was distracted by her own bite of wonton, he pressed flush against her, the dampness of his shirt pressing through the soft fabric of her tee. “Jug!” She jumped, although not  _ away _ he realized as the pressure of her back grew against his chest. Jughead wrapped his arms around her waist and dropped his head to rest on her shoulder. Betty’s contented sigh felt like fire against his flesh, goosebumps ran up his neck and down his arms and the chill completely dissipated the closer she pressed against him. 

It had been hard getting to this point. The comfort and ease that came naturally to Betty took him some time to understand, but finally, with some patient coaching and guidance, Jughead was able to more freely express the emotions that continued to bubble up and surprise him. When he was nervous, he told her; when he felt unsure, he expressed it, and when he was downright ready to implode, she became his saving grace. Everything could be falling apart around him but with Betty, he knew he’d be able to find his way out. So while it was work, it was the best work he’d ever done, because the pieces fell into place and fit perfectly to create this brilliant puzzle that was their lives. 

* * *

_ You will marry a professional athlete—if competitive eating can be considered a sport. _

Betty watched as the snow fell through the neon glow of the signage outside. It wasn’t heavy, not yet, but it was sticking and building up on the wet pavement. Silently, she wished she’d worn her heavier boots and coat, maybe gloves,  _ definitely _ a scarf…especially everytime the restaurant’s door opened. A chill ran up her spine as the wind twisted the hairs of her ponytail. She shivered against the cold before she turned and caught sight of her boyfriend, fat snowflakes still lingering in his dark hair and on the scarf she’d knitted (and he wisely wore) wrapped snugly around his neck.

Now, as had become customary, he dropped the possessions he carried onto the opposite seat and slid in beside her, snow shaken from his hair onto his giggling girlfriend. There was something about his smile she just hadn’t been able to describe—not with words or gestures or feelings—since the day he first dropped into her booth. He was handsome then, confident in a way that had nothing to do with her yet still she was drawn to him like a moth to a flame. Betty quickly came to realize that confidence was near parody, he was so unsure of himself. Or at least unsure of how well he fit together with her. Over time, it seemed to have transformed into a radiance that maybe only she could see, and if she was honest, she was completely okay with that.

He reached out with icy fingers and laid them on her cheeks, pulling her face toward his, that sweet, serene smile melting away the cold left by his hands. Their lips met, warm and sweet-and-sour-sticky against the frosty edge that clung to his. His kisses came easy and unbidden, the way she always knew they would once he was able to truly embrace all the pieces of himself. She felt a hand slide from her cheek to behind her head, fingers wrapping around her ponytail and pulling it as he deepened the kiss. It only lasted a few moments before propriety took over but the feeling of his lips lingered through the duration of the meal. 

Between bites, he quickly told her about his day: how his finals went, how he talked to his landlord and would be able to break his lease without too many problems. 

“Juggie,” she started, forcing him to pause the steady stream of lo mein he was shoveling into his mouth. Betty watched him swallow down the mouthful of noodles and turn his attention to her. “Are you sure this is all okay? I know we’ve taken this at our own pace and everything is on our terms but you don’t, like, feel any pressure, right?”

“Betts,” he reached for her hands that were wringing together in her lap, wrapped his large ones around them, and pulled them to his lips. “This was my idea. I want nothing more in life than to wake up next to you every day for the…”

His voice trailed off nervously. She thought she knew what he was going to say, wholeheartedly agreed in fact, but hadn’t dared to get that far ahead of herself. “Yes! I… I think we’re on the same page.” 

Once upon a Friday, she’d said she felt “the same way,” and they’d started down the path that led them to this moment. Now, as they were about to embark on a new chapter, she affirmed they were on the same page about where they were going, how they both were feeling. Jughead wasn’t one to believe in fairy tales or signs, but he believed in her.

Betty’s hand twisted and her fingers laced their way between his. He squeezed gently, the look in his eyes reflecting the same love and admiration she knew shone from hers. The moment was broken by their server dropping their check and fortune cookies on the table in front of them. Jughead’s startled squeak and jump separated them. (It also gave both her and the server a good laugh.)

Once Betty recovered she reached for one of the cookies, the plastic crinkling between her fingers louder than it had ever seemed to before. “Hmm,” she mused, throwing the wrapper on the table and breaking the cookie in half. “It feels different.”

“Feels different? A fortune cookie?” He reached for his own, hastily tearing through the wrapper and cracking into the treat. “It  _ feels  _ like a fortune cookie to me.” Half got tossed into his mouth as he pulled the fortune from its casing. She heard the echoed “hmm” through the chomping, confusion slipping over his face.

“Something wrong?” She questioned with a quirk of her brow.

His head shook no. “No, not wrong per se, I mean this”—he waved the other half of the cookie—“this is completely normal. Stale? Sure. But nothing too amiss. This, however,” he held up the fortune and looked at it with an air of incredulity, “this is just a normal, boring, run of the mill fortune.”

“Huh?” Betty leaned toward him and snatched the paper out of his hand, taking in the generic fortune with a modicum of disappointment. She dropped his fortune on the table and crushed the cookie she’d haphazardly discarded to retrieve the fortune from it. “Huh,” she repeated when hers was equally bland. “I wonder if they got a new supplier.”

Jughead chuckled next to her. “I mean, not that I won’t miss those unconventional fortunes, but really, at this point I think we both know that’s not what I come here for.”

“Jughead Jones being enticed into social situations for reasons other than food? Practically unheard of. Are you sure you haven’t been body snatched?”

  
“I don’t think you need to call Scotland Yard just yet,” he teased back, “but I can safely say that I found something,  _ someone _ even, much better than any fortune cookie.”

**Author's Note:**

> Have you ever got an outlandish, silly, or particularly pointed fortune? Let us know in the comments! We hope you enjoyed the fic, thank you for your support!
> 
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